


With These Hands (*Working Title)

by sonnets_and_snowdrops



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Demons, Fantasy AU, Gen, Gothic Horror AU, M/M, Power Corrupts, Witches, but also it sometimes makes you a badass sooooo, christian demons, magic is scary to people who don't understand it, power limiters as power enhancers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 23:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17171291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonnets_and_snowdrops/pseuds/sonnets_and_snowdrops
Summary: Cho Gonou is a mild-mannered professor with an aching heart, a pair of hands with tremendous untapped potential, and a deep desire for revenge.Sha Gojyo is a half-witch, shunned by closed-minded townspeople. He tells himself he doesn't care. (Unrelated: he's gotten pretty damn good at lying to himself.)Genjo Sanzo is a Catholic priest with more than a few not-so-Catholic vices. The ward of the church is a bright, eager, young boy with strange, golden eyes.***Set in a dark, drab town where the rains never seem to cease and a current of magic runs through the very earth - and, it is said, through the shadowy castle that looms in the distance. Rumors of demons are growing more and more common by the day. But where are these demons coming from? And what, for that matter, doesdemoneven mean? The professor may have more answers than he's letting on - but he certainly won't reveal his secrets before he saves his sister.





	With These Hands (*Working Title)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imaginary_dragonling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_dragonling/gifts).



> Written as part of tumblr's [Minekura Fan Events](https://minekura-fan-events.tumblr.com/post/176966449457/hello-all-and-welcome-to-the-minekura-fan-events) Secret Santa 2018.  
> 

He stumbled, but he did not fall – not yet, anyway.

That, at least, was something.

The sky had opened up above him just shy of an hour ago, and now, his clothes were soaked through. His spectacles – new-fangled things, _expensive_ things, things that he’d barely managed to pay for with his modest professor’s stipend – were useless in this dark, dreary wet. Wiping them on his shirt did no good, and even if he’d had the strength, he couldn’t for the life of him have come up with a spell to repel the rain.

He stumbled again, and this time, his knees met soft, soft earth.

 _It’s because I can’t see,_ he told himself. It wasn’t because he was weak. It wasn’t because desperation was the only thing keeping his fragile heart beating.

And it certainly wasn’t because what little magic he’d used had taken its toll on him.

He was stronger than this.

He _had_ to be.

For his sister, he had to be.

 

***

 

That night, the professor learned for the first time just how painful forcing a smile could be.

“Good evening,” he’d said to the first woman who’d opened her door to him. (He’d knocked unsuccessfully on four doors prior to this one, and truly, he couldn’t blame the residents of this small, tucked-away village for being wary. Rumors of dark magic, strange powers, and demons had grown thick as old blood in recent years, and even the professor himself would have thought twice before opening his own door to the voice of a stranger.) “My name is Gonou,” he’d continued. “Cho Gonou, that is. I’m a professor of Ancient Philosophies and Linguistics at the University in Yao Yuan He. I’m without food and shelter for the night – is there any chance I might beg your assistance?”

That was when he smiled his first forced smile. His face felt stretched and false. It seemed to the professor that he was telling a wordless lie. He did not like it one bit.

The woman’s eyes had softened with pity. “You poor thing,” she said, taking in the state of his mud-stained trousers, his soaked-through hair and coat and satchel, and his pale, drawn cheeks. “Of course you can come in. My youngest son is about your size, and I’m sure he won’t mind if you borrow some of his clothes.”

The professor’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you,” he said, and for a few brief moments, his false smile melted into a real one.

“Did you come all the way from the University?” the woman asked as she ushered the professor through the doorway and onto her welcome mat. “…take your clothes off here,” she added. “Forgive me; I can’t have you dripping all over my floors.”

“No trouble,” the professor said. He slipped his waterlogged satchel over his head, and began to strip off his coat.

“It’s quite a journey, isn’t it?” the woman continued. “All the way from the University? And in this weather?”

“Ah – yes. Yes, it would be, I suppose. If I had come that far.”

The woman’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t come from the University, then?”

The professor shook his head. “Not today, no.”

“Then – where?”

The professor’s coat dropped to the floor. The woman’s eyes widened, and her mouth dropped softly open. At first, the professor was baffled. What had he done, he wondered, to warrant a reaction like this? Everything had been going so well. What, he wondered, had changed?

His left arm twinged.

The professor’s heart sank.

 _Oh,_ he remembered. _Yes. That._

“I’m sorry -- ” he started to say. He clutched his left arm tight with his right hand – as if, ridiculously, doing so could hide the long, jagged gash running from shoulder to elbow from the woman’s sights. Blood had begun to drip onto her floors, and for that, the professor cursed himself. It was terribly poor etiquette to bleed on the floors of a host’s home, after all.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Where,” she said, her voice suddenly cold and hard as steel, “did you come from?”

The professor gave a sad, one-armed shrug. “The castle,” he said. He tried another smile, but the falseness had returned to his face. “Not a very nice place, is it?”

“Get out,” the woman said.

“I can pay,” the professor started. “I have coins. I have – I have books! They’re soggy and wet now, but I’m sure that, with time, they’ll – ”

“ _Get,”_ the woman repeated through clenched teeth, _“out.”_

The professor opened his mouth to protest again. His chin trembled – with fatigue, with desperation, with the utter inability to come up with reasons for the woman to let him stay – and then it stilled. He hung his head. “I understand,” he said softly. He turned around, and he stepped back through the door and out into the rain. “Thank you for your time.”

The woman slammed the door without another word.

It was only then that the professor realized that he’d left his coat – with every last coin he had to his name in its pockets – inside.

 

***

 

It was a good night.

A _damn_ good night, actually.

The weather was piss-poor, and that meant that everyone – even the neighborhood kids who loved to taunt, tease, and trick – was leaving the witch at the outskirts of town alone.

 _Technically_ , he was only a half-witch, but that was reason enough for the ignorant assholes in this place to shun him. And, truth be told, it wasn’t as though he didn’t understand where the fear came from. Half-witches stuck out like sore thumbs, and on paper, he supposed that they were kinda freaky-looking as a whole breed – if, say, a person had spent their whole life in a small town and had a closed mind to show for it. Bloodred hair and bloodred eyes were _unnatural,_ small town folk said. If witches were minions of the Devil, then half-witches were Devil-marked at best. At worst, they were unruly heathens, worshippers of chaos just like the unholy beings who’d spawned them.

He tucked one muscular arm behind his head, leaned back against his headboard, and knocked back another swig of his home-brewed ale.

He was a worshipper of chaos, all right.

Just not the kind the townsfolk thought.

One of the naked bombshells he’d conjured was lounging at the foot of his bed, tracing gentle, affectionate, little lines up and down one of his legs. The other looked ready to pass out, almost, resting like she was with her heavy head on his chest and her hand, limp in half-sleep, upon his hipbone.

“…hey, babe,” he said, rolling his neck to the side and nuzzling against the second girl’s forehead. “Whaddya say we call it a night?”

The girl started awake. She blinked her big, blue eyes, as if she’d forgotten where she was, and had to regain her bearings. “Are you sure, Master Gojyo?” she said, when she’d finally pulled herself together again. She leaned in, and she pressed a soft, tender kiss to the side of his neck. The girl at the foot of the bed, all too clearly picking up on the vibe, wriggled a little, and then licked at the inside of his knee.  

At this none-too-subtle invitation, he found himself reconsidering.

It wasn’t like he had anywhere to be in the morning.

It wasn’t like he had anywhere to be, _ever._

No one expected anything of him. Not the townsfolk, not his plants and stones and bones, not his dead and disparate family.

He smirked, and his red eyes gleamed bright.

“Keep that up,” he said, “and you could maybe convince a guy to go for a third round.”

 

***

 

This was how he was going to die.

He knew it. He was absolutely, utterly certain. If he didn’t find a way to take shelter from the rain, he would have no choice but to succumb to the cold. His mind would slow, and his limbs would grow too heavy to move, and his heart would stop as his blood turned to liquid ice inside his veins.

He was weary. He was worn. He was trembling. He was bleeding. He was blind.

He was so, so alone.

None of the townspeople had let him inside after the first woman. He understood; he looked a mess, and without his satchel, he didn’t even have the papers to prove that he was a professor anymore. _Though,_ he realized glumly, _I’m sure they’ve been soaked through for hours._ In all likelihood, they were useless now.

He thought back to the life that he, ever so briefly, had lived in happiness. Would he and his sister, he wondered, ever have invited a waterlogged, bloodstained stranger into their home? He supposed not. He supposed it was only reasonable. He supposed it was only safe.

Not, of course, that any amount of caution could have kept her safe in the end.

 _I’m sorry, my darling,_ he thought, sending his silent prayer up to the merciless sky. _I can’t save you. I tried my best. Live well without me. Live well, and may a stronger man bring you happiness._

His heart jolted, and his arm burned with sudden, new pain. He fell to the ground, and if he if he screamed, it, too, was silent.

 

***

 

“…Father?”

The priest didn’t bother opening his eyes. It was a tall order, but if he pretended he was still asleep, then maybe, _maybe,_ just this once, the kid would shrug off whatever the hell he wanted and leave him alone.

_“…Father?”_

The kid’s voice was more insistent this time.

The priest groaned, and rolled over in bed. “What?” he grunted at the kid, making it all too clear that he was neither amused nor interested.

“…um.” The kid shifted from foot to foot, and he wrung his little hands together. That alone was weird enough to catch the priest’s attention; if the kid wanted a cup of milk, or another crust of bread, or for the priest to read him a parable as he drifted off to sleep, he always asked outright. He annoyed the living shit out of the priest sometimes, but he was never wishy-washy like this. The priest had to respect that much, at least.

“Spit it out,” the priest said. “If you have something to say, say it.”

“…okay.” The kid took a deep breath, and it actually looked like it settled him a little. Bright, golden eyes cut through the darkness, and in them, the priest could read fear and uncertainty – but most of all, he saw _need._

 _What the hell,_ he wondered, _is going on?_

“There’s a man here,” the kid said. “He’s asleep outside in the rain. He’s on the steps. I think…” He hesitated. His gaze flicked to the left, almost as if he was embarrassed to say his next piece.

“Kid,” the priest growled, “how many times do I have to tell you? Iif you have something to say – "

“I think he’s crying,” the kid said. “It’s just. It’s hard to tell. With the rain.”

“He’s probably drunk,” the priest said. He rolled over again so that he was facing the wall. The kid was probably too young to understand what _drunk_ meant, but the priest decided that he could let the kid figure it out for himself.

“He’s bleeding,” the kid said.

“Don’t care.”

“He could _die,_ Father.”

“Not likely.”

“He _could,_ though.”

“Go back to sleep, kid.”

“…Father?”

Silence. The priest screwed his eyes shut. Sometimes, the order of the day was helping the kid understand where he was going wrong – but sometimes, the order of the day was sleep.

“Father,” the kid repeated. “We’re supposed to help others, aren’t we?”

Silence again.

Then, more silence.

Then –

“Goddammit,” the priest grumbled.

He sat up. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, and he let the kid see the scowl on his face.

“Show me,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> Infinite thanks to my wonderful recipient and dear friend, [@imaginarydragonling](https://imaginarydragonling.tumblr.com/), for being endlessly kind and brilliantly supportive - both during this mad dash of a holiday season, and always. Much love to you, friend <333  
> Thanks to everyone for reading! Hoping to add new chapters before too long - but first, I intend to kick back for just a little while, and enjoy some much-deserved eggnog and a Christmas cookie or two.  
> Happy holidays one and all! Catch ya later :)))


End file.
